Cuchifrita, Ballerina Page 8

  While we’re waiting for the doctor to come into the room, I watch the solution dripping into my IV bottle. It puts me into a trance. It seems like a thousand years before the doctor finally comes into the little room to see me.

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Reuben,” she says, looking at me curtly, then checking the chart at the foot of my bed. “Okay, I see we have swelling in your left ankle. Let me examine it. I’m going to touch your leg and ankle, Chanel, to determine the range of motion. You tell me where it hurts.”

  Every way the doctor touches, I scream, “Ouch!!!”

  “We’re going to have to take X rays now, to see if her ankle is broken. Mrs.—”

  “Simmons,” Mom says.

  The doctor then turns me over on my stomach, with the help of the nurse.

  “Tell me where It hurts,” Dr. Reuben says, moving her hands on different parts of my back.

  “Lower,” I instruct her. “Ouch!!” I wince, when she touches the top of my backside.

  When Dr. Reuben finishes, the nurse informs Mom, “Just have a seat and wait here until we come back.”

  Mom sits in a chair, and doesn’t even look at me while I’m being wheeled out to the X-ray room. But when I get back, there is a flicker of warmth in Mom’s eyes like she is happy to see me.

  After the attendant leaves, I moan to Mom, “I didn’t do so well at the audition.”

  “What happened. Qué pasó?”

  “I don’t know,” I stutter, then start crying again, which makes me feel so stupid!

  After that, Mom doesn’t say a word, and I’m staring at the ceiling. It seems like a thousand more years before Doctor Reuben comes back in.

  “Okay. From your X rays, Chanel, it looks like you have a broken tailbone and a Grade II ankle sprain in your left ankle. Have you sprained your ankle before?” Dr. Reuben asks me, shoving her hands in the pocket of her lab coat.

  “Um, yes—last week, in Houston,” I confess. Mom looks at me surprised. “But, it was just a little sprain, Nothing like this.”

  “That’s probably why there is so much inflammation and purple shading,” Dr. Reuben continues. “Well, it’s going to take six months or longer to heal completely.”

  “Six months!” I say, squeaking. Bubbles is gonna kill me! What about our showcase?

  “But, it will improve tremendously after a three- to four-week healing period,” Dr. Reuben adds, upon seeing the alarmed look on my face.

  “Am I going to be able to dance again?” I ask.

  “Once an ankle sprain occurs, the joint itself may never be as strong as it was before the injury. But you’ll regain strength in time,” Dr. Reuben says. She is a very serious lady, so I can’t tell if she is just being nice and trying not to scare me. “Are you a dancer?”

  “Yes,” I say, and it’s hard to believe my own ears. “But not a professional one.”

  “Well, if all goes well, you’ll be able to bear full weight on your ankle within a four-week healing period,” Dr. Reuben continues. “The initial treatment is what I call RICE—Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation.”

  I sink into the bed, feeling hopeless. I don’t want any RICE treatment!

  “You’re going to have to apply ice packs to the sprained ankle for thirty-minute periods, every three to four hours,” Dr. Reuben tells Mom. “You should also apply compression with an elastic wrap, but don’t wrap it so tightly that her circulation is blocked. And while she’s resting, elevate the ankle by propping up the leg with pillows.”

  “What about the tailbone?” I ask, wondering what concoctions Dr. Reuben has for that.

  “Oh, there’s not much you can do for that. The tailbone is very delicate, and it heals itself naturally. Just put on ice packs and some arnica—rub it on like a balm.”

  “How long does she have to stay here?” Mom asks.

  “She can leave now. She’ll be much more comfortable at home. There’s no need to keep her here,” Dr. Reuben says assuredly.

  I don’t wanna go home! I want to shriek to Dr. Reuben, but I don’t say anything.

  “Here are your crutches. You should use them until you can walk without pain,” Dr. Reuben says, instructing the nurse to place the crutches near me by the bed.

  “Don’t you have to wrap her ankle?” Mom asks. I guess she doesn’t want the doctor to think she means my tailbone.

  How am I going to tell my crew that I broke my tailbone at the audition? I would rather have suffered a head concussion!

  “No, Mrs. Simmons. After a few weeks, we’re gonna put a brace on it if it doesn’t heal properly. It should, though, if she completely stays off it for the first week.”

  One week in prison. That’s all I can think of.

  “One more thing,” the doctor says, her face growing more serious. “About the dizzy spells you were having? Chanel, have you been going without eating?”

  “I… well, I …”She can tell I have, and so can Mom, who looks at me in horror, her eyes wide. “I didn’t want my butt sticking out at the audition….” I say meekly, sounding lame even to myself.

  “Chanel, have you ever heard of anorexia?” the doctor asks. When I don’t answer, she says, “It’s when people starve themselves because they think they’re too fat. Now, you are definitely in the normal weight range. You do not need to diet, and you certainly shouldn’t be starving yourself. That’s why you passed out—and if you’d kept it up much longer, you could have done serious long-term damage to yourself.”

  “Really?” I say, in a voice so meek it’s almost a whisper.

  “Really. People die of anorexia, Chanel. Young girls die. Now you’ve got to get your strength back up. I suggest you eat whenever you’re hungry, as long as it’s healthy food.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I mean, yes, Doctor.”

  As I am being wheeled out of the emergency room and into a fancy van, all I can think about is what a stupid babosa I’ve been. If I hadn’t been so concerned about my butt that I stopped eating, it wouldn’t be broken right now. Maybe I’d even be in American Ballet Theatre Junior Corps Division! And my ankle wouldn’t look like a purple grapefruit. When that doctor said I could have died, I got really scared, and I’m still shaking as Mom wheels me outside, where a big, fancy van is waiting for us.

  “Kashmir arranged for the van,” Mom explains to me. I wince. It figures that Mom called Mr. Tycoon for help, and not Daddy.

  That’s okay. I’m going to call Daddy myself when I get home.

  As soon as I’m all propped up in my bed, Bubbles calls—before I get a chance to call Daddy. Mom takes the phone from me, and tells Bubbles to call back tomorrow. I’m so relieved. I know Bubbles will be upset with me when she finds out we won’t be able to do our showcase in two weeks for Def Duck Records.

  “You can come by tomorrow,” Mom explains sternly to Bubbles.

  For once I am happy that Mom is related to Puff the Magic Dragon. Nobody can breathe more fire than her—except maybe Madrina, Bubbles’s mom….

  I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, but the sun is shining through my bedroom window. I look down, and see that I’m wearing my pink flowered nightgown. Now I remember Mom putting it on me, but that’s the last thing I remember. I look over at my alarm clock—the neon numbers say it’s 9:00 A.M.

  Nine o’clock in the morning! Why didn’t anybody wake me up?! Suddenly, when I feel the shooting pain in my lower back, I remember why—because I’m not going to school today.

  I can’t believe I slept the whole night without waking up! Shaking my head some more, I realize that today is Sunday. There’s no school anyway.

  Then I smell something cooking in the kitchen, and notice that my stomach is growling really loud.

  “Mamí!” I yell.

  Pucci peeks his head in the door. “Mamí wants to know if you’re hungry.”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. He runs out, without even saying anything nasty. I feel really weak—like I haven’t eaten for a thousand years.

  Mom comes into
the bedroom with breakfast on a tray. I can’t remember the last time she did that! “Don’t tell me you’re not going to eat anything again,” Mom huffs. “Remember what that doctor told you.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, biting off a sausage. “I’m going to eat everything on this plate. I’ve never been so hungry in my whole life!”

  “Galleria and her mother are corning over at ten o’clock. After you finish eating, I can bring a pan and some water to give you a sponge bath,” Mom says.

  “A sponge bath?” I squeal. “I can—” I stop myself, because I realize that I can’t, so I just sigh and say, “Okay.”

  Four sausages, two English muffins, and four scrambled eggs later, Mom gives me a sponge bath, which makes me feel like a little girl again. I feel so humiliated, but I don’t want to start crying again.

  “I’m going to get better real quick,” I say to Mom. She doesn’t say anything—not even “I told you so.” She didn’t want me to try out for the Junior Corps, because she knew I wasn’t ready. That’s probably why I got so nervous and ruined everything. I feel so stupid now—I probably dieted myself right out of a place in American Ballet Theatre’s Junior Corps Division!

  “Which nightgown do you want to wear?” Mom asks me.

  “The cheetah one,” I say with a sigh. If my friends are coming over, I want to let them know I’m still a Cheetah Girl—even if this cheetah is a hurting kitty.

  Mom brings in a bucket of ice, to do the ice packs on my ankle and tailbone.

  “It’s so cold,” I say, shivering. “I can’t believe I have to do this fifty times a day!”

  “You’re lucky your ankle isn’t broken,” is all Mom says, but I know she wants to say more.

  Luckily, the doorbell brings. I motion to Mom for her to hurry up.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure they’ve seen ice packs before!”

  For once, I keep my boca grande shut. Pucci opens the door, and I hear everyone talking in the hallway.

  “In here!” Mom yells, but Pucci is already bringing them into my bedroom. He comes in first, and stands at the edge of my bed with his box of Pick Up Stix.

  Madrina looks even taller than usual. With her big Cheetah hat on her head and high heels, she almost touches the ceiling!

  “Chanel, you look swell,” Madrina says, bending over to kiss me. “We brought you something from all of us.”

  Bubbles comes from behind her, and puts a big box with a big cheetah bow on top of me on the bed.

  “Oooo!” I coo. “What is this?”

  “Open it and you’ll see,” Pucci says, like a smarty-pants.

  “He’s right, darling,” Madrina says, sitting on the edge of my bed. “You won’t know unless you open it.”

  Then I see that the rest of the Cheetah Girls are here, too. “Hi, Do’ Re Mi!” I exclaim, as Dorinda comes into the room and bends over to kiss me. “Hi, Aqua. Hi, Angie!” The twins come over and kiss me, too.

  “Does it hurt?” Bubbles asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Lemme put some more pillows under your head,” Mom says, propping me up some more.

  “Gracias, Mamí,” I say, intent on unwrapping the bow on the big, beautiful box. “Aaah!” I exclaim when I see the layers of cheetah tissue paper inside.

  Inside the box is a tutu covered with cheetah ribbons! “Ooo, this is tan coolio,” I say, tears coming to my eyes. “Where did you find this?”

  “It’s just a tutu,” Madrina explains.

  “Bubbles and I sewed on the ribbons,” Dorinda says, chuckling. “Look underneath, too.”

  “Oh!” I say, realizing there is more. Under more tissue paper, there is a cheetah leotard! “Ooo!”

  “We thought if you want to be a cheetah ballerina—maybe sometimes when we do our shows, you could do ballet moves or something,” Dorinda explains carefully.

  The tears overflow from my eyes. And I thought my crew would be so mad at me!

  “Chuchie, I think that would be sort of cheetah-licious. You know, as usual, the Cheetah Girls are coming with their own flavor. Miss Cuchifrita Ballerina isn’t gonna sleep on her leaps,” Bubbles says proudly.

  “I think it would be dope—you know, we could be leaping at the Leaping Frog,” Dorinda explains earnestly.

  “But we’re not going to be able to do the showcase in two weeks,” I say sadly.

  “I know.” Bubbles sighs, then turns to leave.

  “Where ya going?” Pucci asks her.

  “I wanna get some Dominican punch—I know Auntie Juanita has made some,” Bubbles jokes. Mom’s idea of Dominican punch is mixing tropical punch with diet orange soda and root beer. I think it tastes yucky, but Bubbles likes it.

  “I’ll get it,” Pucci volunteers, surprising us all.

  “Get me one too, Pucci darling,” Madrina coos proudly at Pucci. Then she takes my hand and says assuringly, “Don’t worry, Chanel. I called Freddy Fudge at Def Duck Records, and told him to push the showcase back by another week. God knows they’ve done enough quacking about nothing, so one more week isn’t going to make a difference in that little pond.”

  “They’re still panting like puppies, don’t you worry!” Aqua pipes up, then opens up her Cheetah backpack, and pulls out our Miss Sassy trophy! “We think you should keep Miss Sassy for a while.”

  I start boohooing some more. “Thank you. Shell be very happy here. I’m going to put her right next to Mr. Smoochy-Poochy Hugs and Kisses,” I coo, pointing to my stuffed dog on the shelf.

  “I thought his name was Snuggly Wiggly?” Bubbles says smirking.

  “I’m still dizzy, mija.”

  Everybody smiles at me. I feel so much better, now that I know they care about me.

  “If we do the Def Duck showcase in three weeks, do you think they still wanna do it at the Leaping Frog?” I ask Madrina, squinching up my nose.

  “Why? You don’t want it there?” Madrina asks, ever the manager.

  “Well, if it’s okay with you, I would rather not hear the word ‘leaping’ for a while.”

  Angie, Aqua, Bubbles, and Dorinda start giggling. “Leapin’ lizards, why on earth not?” Aqua asks.

  “Because—I don’t think I’ll be leaping into stardom anytime soon, okay?” I say, giggling.

  “No?” Bubbles asks, not believing her ears.

  “No,” I say, smiling and wiping away my tears. “No pirouettes till payday!”

  Bubbles kisses me on the cheeks and says, “Now that’s a song, Miss Cuchifrita Ballerina!!!”

  Miss Cuchifrita, Ballerina!

  Chanel’s so swell

  ’cuz she’s got the moves

  Plié, sashay

  Pirouette till payday!

  Plié, sashay

  Pirouette ’till hey day.

  That’s what we say

  So don’t shout né né

  Hey,

  Ho,

  Go with the flow

  And act like you know!

  The Cheetah Girls Glossary

  Adagio: In Italian it means slow; in ballet class, it refers to slow, stretchy exercises at the barre or in the center which have to do with balance, extension, and long lines in the body.

  Allegro: The part of the ballet class when you learn small jumps.

  Attitude: Working a situation. In ballet, it’s a position in which the working leg is bent, not straight, and may be raised to the front, the side, or the back.

  Babosa: Spanish for cuckoo head; idiot.

  Barre: The barre is the wooden or metal railing that is either attached to the wall of the classroom or exercise studio, or moved to the center and used as a support. You rest your hand gently on it and don’t clutch it for dear life!

  Cáyate la boca: Spanish for “Shut your trap!”

  Claro que sí!: Spanish for “Of course, you silly nilly.”

  Clunkheads: Dodo birds. Dunces.

  Copyright infringement: When you bite someone else’s flavor—like their music or lyrics—and act like it’s y
our own—without giving them credit or duckets.

  Corra, corra!: Run like a hyena!

  Ding, ding: Exactly, duncehead.

  Down in the Dumpster: Sad.

  Gracias gooseness: Thank goodness.

  Grand allegro: The large, diagonal combination at the end of ballet class where the jumps get more “grand,” or bigger.

  Extension: Hair weave; in ballet, it refers to how high you can lift your leg in movements like battements and developpé.

  Howdy do: A common greeting in Houston that really means, “Wazzup?”

  La culpa mía: Spanish for “my fault” or “my boo-boo.”

  Mackin’: Sweatin’ or swooning for someone or even daydreamin’ about them all the time.

  Mariposa negra: Black Butterfly.

  Párate!: Spanish for “Stop, you cuckoo bird!”

  Perpetrate: To do something shady or pretend that you’re something you aren’t.

  Petit allegro: Any jump in ballet from one leg to another.

  Pirouette till payday: Dancing till the duckets fall from the sky.

  Pliés: Deep knee bends as performed in ballet warm-up exercises.

  Port de bras: How you move your arms in different positions in ballet class.

  Silly mono: Silly monkey. As in, “Stop acting like a silly mono!”

  Terminado: Spanish for “finished,” Kaput.

  Tight: Dope. Brilliant.

  Youston: The way some peeps down south pronounce “Houston.”

  Acknowledgments

  I have to give it up to the Jump at the Sun peeps here—Andrea Pinkney, Lisa Holton, and Ken Geist—for letting the Cheetah Girls run wild. Also, Anath Garber, the one person who helped me find my Cheetah Girl powers. And, Lita Richardson, the one person who now has my back in the jiggy jungle. Primo thanks to the cover girl Cheetahs: Arike, Brandi, Imani, Jeni, and Mia. And to all the Cheetah Girls around the globe: Get diggity with the growl power, baby!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Deborah Gregory earned her growl power as a diva-about-town contributing writer for Essence, Vibe, and More magazines. She has showed her spots on several talk shows, including Oprah, Ricki Lake, and Maury Povich. She lives in New York City with her pooch, Cappuccino, who is featured as the Cheetah Girls’ mascot, Toto.